Chapter 2

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Finch was breathing heavily as he limped as fast as he could along the road. He felt completely out of place in this industrial area in his suit and hat. Mr. Reese had told him to stay off the main roads, and to call a cab as soon as he was far enough away. Now as Finch hobbled alongside a chain-link fence, more than winded from his mad dash, he realized that John had failed to specify what "far enough" was. Sweat was trickling down his back, and he was close to having a stitch. He needed to take a break.

Clutching his computer bag tightly to his side, Harold stopped at the darkest spot between two street lights and leaned back against the fence. He used to feel like this after a five-mile run - all spent and tired. Now, speed-hobbling a five block distance was all that it took - probably less considering that this latest "run" had been substantially fueled by adrenalin. Nothing like flying bullets and being pursued by men who were most likely determined to kill you to motivate a high performance.

Harold had trusted Mr. Reese's judgment and did not argue his suggestion to split up and to let him draw the attention of the men. He also trusted in John's abilities and skills, but it didn't stop him from worrying about his friend.

He knew he wouldn't stop worrying until Reese sauntered into the library like he had just come back from the nicest walk. Neither of them would address the fact that he once again had put his life on the line without a second thought, and Harold would not admit that he'd been worried sick. Just business as usual.

His link to John's phone had been disconnected, and Finch didn't know if it had been deliberate or not. But knowing his employee's track record for destroying phones, his current device probably had met with an untimely end - although Harold refused to even entertain the thought that John might have as well.

If memory served him right he still had a couple of blocks to go before he'd leave the industrial area behind. Figuring it would attract less attention to call a cab from a busier place, Finch started to move again.

He had just taken a couple of steps when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Hoping to see that Mr. Reese was calling to re-establish their connection Harold stopped, pulled out the device, then hesitated.

It was John calling alright, but it appeared that he was sending him a request to view a video stream. Strange.

Finch accepted the request with a feeling of dread. First he saw only a pair of dark leather shoes starkly illuminated by white-blueish LED light. Then he heard a voice - which he recognized as Michael Mercer's from the conversations Mr. Reese had had with their Number over the previous days - saying, "We're online!"

That man having John's phone didn't bode well at all, and where Finch had been sweating just a minute before, chills were now running down his spine.

When John's bloodied and bruised face appeared on the screen Harold gasped, "Oh no."

"I've got your friend," Mercer said, as John winced and looked away. "I want that file back."

The video shook, changed in perspective, and a gun pointing at Reese's head appeared in the frame. "You've got thirty seconds."

Finch froze. He stared at the feed, at the profile of John Reese's calm face. There was not a single emotion on the man's face. Harold's mind was racing. He knew that John expected him to do nothing - to accept the inevitable loss of an asset, shrug it off and go home. And realistically there was nothing he could do. Even if he returned to the docks and handed over the file he doubted Mercer would just shake hands with them and let them go.

But he could still buy John time.

When Finch finally broke his paralysis Mercer had already reached the final third of his countdown. His fingers flew over the display of his phone - the fear that he'd made his decision too late caused his hands to tremble. "C'mon."

"Five ... Four ... Three ... Two ..."

"Wait!"

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John Reese was livid. He considered Harold Finch to be one the smartest men - if not THE smartest - he had ever met, but at the moment he'd like nothing more than to shake the older man, and berate him for his foolishness. God, what the hell had Finch been thinking?

Reese was still kneeling on the cold and uneven asphalt at the waterfront with his hands tied behind his back. But he had lost his appreciation of the view of the sparkly New York skyline the moment Finch had stopped Mercer's countdown, the desperation so painfully obvious in his voice.

The position he had been in for the last twenty minutes was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Pebbles were digging into his knees, and his hands had started to go numb a while ago.

"Looks like your friend has changed his mind," Mercer said, after a very prolonged moment of silence. He'd been impatiently checking his wrist watch every two minutes since Harold had agreed to return to the docks with the file. In all honesty John truly hoped that Finch had indeed changed his mind. Maybe if Shaw had not been out of town there would have been a possibility of a successful extraction. They were pretty exposed, and those stacks of shipping containers around them were an ideal hiding place for a sniper. However even with a quick shot at the rifle - which he knew Shaw was - it would still be a risky undertaking. Too risky for his taste.

"Hey," Mercer pushed Reese from behind, "I'm talking to you." John was about to reply with a remark that he knew would only incense the man even more - he was just in that kind of mood. But instead they both turned to look in the direction one of the remaining two goons had drawn their attention to. Mercer's other two guys were returning from their lookout post, and between them they were escorting a decidedly timid-looking Harold Finch - wide-eyed and ashen-faced. They let go of Harold and pushed him ahead of them, causing the handicapped man to trip forward.

John raised an eyebrow in silent disapproval when Finch's and his eyes met, but he noted with some satisfaction the absence of Harold's computer bag. The man seemed to have retained at least some common sense.

"You got my file?" The men who'd been escorting Finch both shook their heads. "He didn't have it on him."

Mercer's free hand balled into a fist. It seemed he was starting to lose his patience. He turned to face Finch. "Where's my file?"

Taking a step forward and clasping his hands together in front of him, Harold's demeanor turned businesslike. "It's at a safe place, I assure you Mr. Mercer. Unfortunately, we haven't had a chance to discuss the terms of the exchange."

"'The terms of the exchange?" asked Mercer perplexed. "What do you mean by 'the terms of the exchange'?"

"Well," Finch took another step forward, "as it stands, you want something that is in my possession, and I'd like to acquire something that is in yours. I'm sure that if we meet halfway we both can get what we want. By agreeing to meet with you here I have already shown you a sign of my goodwill. I'm hoping that you'll extend me the same courtesy."

Mercer rubbed a hand across his chin. "Goodwill, huh?" he said, also taking a step closer to Finch. Reese tensed, but the hand of one of Mercer's men on his shoulder rendered him practically immobile. "I'll show you some goodwill."

Before Finch had a chance to step back - out of their Number's reach - the latter swung the hand holding his gun at the millionaire's head. Its butt connected with Harold's temple with a crack, causing him to spin in a semi-circle before dropping almost unstopped to the ground. He might have blacked out for a second, although Harold wasn't sure. He lifted his face off the asphalt, and pushed his torso off the ground.

Something warm and sticky was running down the side of his face, and even though his sight was blurry - which hopefully was only due to the fact that his glasses had gone flying when he hit the ground - he could make out the crimson drops of his blood on the asphalt in front of him. He fumbled for his frames, and only heard John grunt in pain as the man holding him down put an end to his struggles by bringing the butt of his gun down on the base of the ex-op's skull.

When Harold found his glasses the world thankfully de-blurred again, and he found Mr. Reese lying dazed on his side, slowly blinking his eyes. Mercer was standing above John with his gun pointed at his head. "The 'terms of the exchange'," he spat, "are as follows. You tell me where the file is or I'll shoot this son of a bitch."

Although Finch's head was pounding, the cut at his hairline stinging like mad, and his heart was trying to burst out of his ribcage he forced himself to appear calm. "If you shoot him," he said, panting through the pain, "you will never learn the whereabouts of that file. And I assure you, it will be in the hands of the police by tomorrow morning."

Locked in a staring contest for what felt like hours, Harold didn't dare breathe. Eventually the other man's eyes narrowed. "Well then," he said, and uncocked his gun. "I guess we'll have to find a different method of motivation to get you to talk."

Exhaling in relief Finch sunk back onto the asphalt. His eyes met John's. The ex-op was not happy, that much was clear, and Finch tried to convey to his employee that things were going according to his plan. Sort of.

"Take these two clowns," ordered Mercer, and both prone men were roughly pulled to their feet and dragged towards the office building.

Neither of them was particularly curious about finding out about that 'different method' their Number had in mind.

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To be continued...